


An unconventional relationship

by dreforall



Series: An unconventional story [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (kind of), (lots of it), 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Crossdressing, F/M, Flawed people doing flawed things, Horses, LGBTIQ+ Characters, Multi, Music, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Regency, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreforall/pseuds/dreforall
Summary: Lyanna Stark disappeared from Westeros five years ago, leaving behind a broken-hearted suitor, family, and maybe people who shouldn't be broken-hearted at all.And then she came back, a much changed woman to a world that went on without her. Just as well.





	1. Danny Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to part 2 of _An unconventional story_! While this one can be read independently, it will make a hell of a more sense if you read _An unconventional woman_ first. :) I hope you enjoy!

He entered the molly house with his heart in his throat.

The place, to its credit, did not look seedy; he was told it worked as a regular tea house during the day, and a rather popular one, which served delicate pastries and cakes alongside other exotic flavors from Yi Ti. It was later in the afternoon that its other operations began. A certain Danny Snow owned the place, a foreigner just arrived from Braavos.

Jon guaranteed him the place was not a brothel and in truth, it didn’t look like one, in spite of being in the Silk Street. The room was not exactly richly decorated, but nor was it tawdry or lavish like most upper class brothels. Indeed, were it not for the characters milling about, one might believe the place to be a simple gentleman’s club — and he supposed it was, although catered to a more... select public.

He settled on a comfortable couch, Jon splayed by his side (“as protection,” he’d said and snorted at his alarmed look), an arm lazily thrown around Rhaegar’s shoulder. He understood why; from time to time, a man came about to engage them in conversation, share a laugh and flirt.

It was, if he thought logically, an interesting place to be. Molly houses weren’t illegal, per se, but neither were them widely accepted; most of society treated much like brothels, an unfortunate reality of life, one people would rather ignore existed.

A few men gambled around a table, playing cards; a couple shared a game of _cyvasse_, one dressed in a gown complete with petticoats, stockings and delicate slippers, a long-haired wig in an elaborate updo. In fact, a few of the men were dressed as women, which reminded him of why he was there in the first place.

Apparently Jon was a regular patron of the place, as several men came over to talk to him, some even going as far as to sit on his lap or kiss him on the lips. It made Rhaegar far less uncomfortable than he’d thought he would be.

”You should relax, Rhaegar, you look like a virgin in a whorehouse,” his red-haired companion whispered, right against his ear. He shuddered. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t missed Jon. His duty to the kingdom made their acquaintance hard to keep, especially when Jon’s increasingly wild popularity as a pianist took him far and wide across the world. Still, they’d been close through most of his youth; more than close, even, and that was not easy to forget.

For this mission, he’d hidden his own silver hair under a dark wig and wore a rather shabby dark overcoat. There wasn’t much to be done about his eyes, but the cigar smoke and general secrecy of the place, he reasoned, were enough. Jon assured him the place was discreet and nobody would tattle on him.

He dared not even think of the scandal it would be if he was found frequenting such a place; his reputation was already tarnished by his distance from Elia and general lack of mistresses. Being seen in such a place would be enough to ruin him, in special after the disastrous campaigns against New Valyria...

Still he was willing to risk. Foolhardy, perhaps, but then, Rhaegar had never been wise.

”I _am_ a virgin in a whorehouse, Jon,” he said. Of course, he wasn’t, what with his two children, but he sure felt like one.

”You would do well to not say such things of my fine establishment, sir. I assure you, no men in this place trade their affections for coin. Not here, anyway.”

If his heart beat faster from the moment he crossed the threshold of the molly house, it stopped entirely at the sound of that voice.

The young man was petite — there was no other word for it — with fine, delicate features set in a rather plain face. His pantaloons were clearly worn, but clean, as were his shirt, coat and cravat. His riding boots, on the other hand, were clearly well-loved and polished. He had a dark brown, shoulder-length hair, kept in a neat queue, the way some sailors wore.

He wore a pistol on his left hip, incongruous with the refined atmosphere of the place; although Rhaegar understood the need for protection at all times. On the other hip was a young child, a boy, sucking on his thumb and clearly sleepy, his free hand tugging on the edges of his elder’s coat. It was obvious the two were related; they had the same dark hair, the same long face, the same bright gray eyes.

Just as obvious was the fact that the “young man” was in fact a woman in male's clothing; and that the child on her hip was just as clearly her son.

They stared at each other for what must be a second that to him felt like eternity.

”Hello, Lya.”

Her lovely lips parted, but whatever she was about to say died before it could leave them.

”Jesse, please take Jon; it’s his time for bed.”

"Yes, Miss Snow."

The one named Jesse, he saw, was actually a boy, no older than five and ten, dressed as a female servant. He took the boy from Lyanna’s hip, soothing him as he fussed, and disappeared through a backdoor that, no doubt, led to her private apartments.

”His parents threw him out due to his 'perversion',” she said, by way of explanation. “He’s a fine boy, although he prefers to be treated as a girl. Mr. Connington, please show your friend to the private room. I suspect we have much to talk about.”

She turned on her heel, marching to a secluded alcove behind a heavy oak door, Jon Connington and Rhaegar Targaryen following dutifully behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** molly houses were the 18-19th century equivalents of gay clubs, where gay men could meet and socialize freely. While they weren’t necessarily brothels, many doubled as such and had private rooms for sex. Men often dressed up as women and sometimes even performed marriage ceremonies, as a way to affirm their commitment. Being gay and engaging in gay sex was illegal in England, and thus, so were molly houses.
> 
> Margaret Clap owned a coffee shop that doubled as a molly house at night and on the weekends. It was a very popular meeting point for gay men and it lasted two years, until the police raided it and arrested 40 men.
> 
> I wasn’t quite sure how Westeros would treat gay people but since it seems to mirror our real world in its shittiest aspects, I figured that while not outright illegal, it would still be treated in a “don’t ask don’t tell” way. Also forgive the quality of this chapter, I literally wrote it while waiting to do a procedure on my shoulder... ^^'


	2. Consolation n. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna confesses. Rhaegar listens. Jon watches.

“Is he mine?”

The door to her office closed behind them with the finality of a death sentence. Of course he would not waste a second; and of course that would be the first question out of his lips. Not _where have you been_ or _are you well_; instead, _is he mine_? It did not hurt, not really; but she guessed she expected more — better. She knew she had a tendency to hold Rhaegar to a higher standard than others, but that was her own heart’s flaw. He was just a man.

_His_. As if a child was a possession, a thing to be claimed and owned, much like her womb.

”No.”

She need not look to see she’d hurt him. It gave an acid taste to her mouth, the feeling seeping through his skin, so strong she was almost drunk with it. Pain. Hurt. Rage. Love. Betrayal. She took it in; it was her fault and hers alone that he felt the way he did.

It was not a lie. Yes, he’d bred little Jon into her womb; but their child was not his to claim. Lyanna was not the same girl who had, in a night of unreason, fallen into bed with a man she desired as she’d never desired anyone before or since; she knew how their world worked. Her son was a bastard, a royal bastard at that.

Not that it mattered. She’d forgotten he could read her just as easily as she could read him.

_You shouldn’t have come back_. What a fool she was, even after all this. She should have stayed away, should have made her life in Lys or Braavos or New Valyria. But her heart, the damned, treacherous thing, had longed for home and she, foolishly, had wanted her son to know his mother’s country. She’d thought, stupidly, that she could remain unseen, just another common woman among many, raising her bastard child in a den of sin, surrounded by people who would not treat him as less for being son of the Lady Lyanna Stark and His Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen.

For a moment they stared at each other, speaking without words. She hated herself a little for still finding him breathtaking. Even in his poor attempt of a disguise, in nondescript, drab clothing — he’d lost the wig as soon as they’d crossed the threshold of her office — he was still very much himself. The casual grace with which he stretched on her black leather couch would’ve fooled anyone into believing he was the picture of noble indolence. Few would’ve seen the tension beneath his skin, primed to fight — for what, she did not know.

It was a good thing Connington was there, leaning against her desk, watching the show with that sardonic smirk of his. She was not quite sure what would have happened were the two of them alone. Lyanna herself could barely keep from pacing, the nervous energy in her manifesting as motion, as it often did.

“Why, Lya?”

Ah. Finally. Why. On the surface it was such a simple question, but she knew the truth beneath it: why she'd left, why she hadn't sent word, why never tell him about their son. _Why did you leave me?_

"You know," she began, quietly. "I always expected to wed Domeric. My father practically raised him; he knew me, knew of my ways, and didn't care. I knew he was agreeable as well; we often talked of such things. _'When we wed',_ we said. We planned the most outlandish things. With time, it became clearer and clearer, what our fate was going to be. It would be splendid; we would travel the world together, become explorers. We would raise the best horses in the North," she laughed. It sounded sad even to her. "But then my father got a proposal. Apparently Robert heard of me, from Ned, and Ned was so enthusiastic about his unconventional sister, that Robert fancied himself in love with me. It was what my father needed: a handsome, gregarious, rich lord to foist his wayward daughter on, one who claimed to love her. One with enough political power and clout to aid the North, and all he wanted was me. A splendid deal, if I say so myself. A steal, really."

Connington made a soft, scoffing noise. She smiled at it; she knew he thought very little of the dynamics of nobility.

"That is when I learned Domeric wouldn't wed me. When we got to Winterfell, I was so glad. I thought he was finally going to declare for me. _'He will save me,’ _I thought_. ‘Finally, he will.' _But I was wrong. He wouldn't risk his friendship and devotion to my father for a half-wild, uncouth girl. Why would he?"

She cut him before he could say anything in retort, as she just knew he would. She could almost read his mind, all the dozens of reasons his fanciful, romantic mind would bring up. All of them false.

"Then there was you," she sighed, resuming her restless pacing. Her office wasn't quite decorated to her taste, but to that of the previous owner of the establishment; still, it felt like home to her, like the little apartment she took with her son on the second floor, the one she shared with Jesse. "My handsome silver prince, ready to embark in a romance with the savage from the North. Of course, of all men in Westeros, it had to be _you_. A married man, well out of my reach. And, of course, I had to..."

Even now she couldn't say it. She saw the flash in his eyes, almost daring her to say it out loud, with Jon Connington of all people as witness. The redhead simply watched them, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, as if her confession was little more than an interesting play. Of course, Connington knew more than even Rhaegar did; but then, he'd always had a taste for the dramatic. It was why he was such a good musician.

"I tried to be a good lady. I dressed like one, talked like one, behaved like one. I tried to convince myself that I could live that life. I knew Robert wouldn't be charmed by the reality of marrying me," she shrugged. "And still I failed. I failed at the principal duty of a maiden: to guard her virtue."

She slid to her knees before him then, holding his hands, his beautiful, pianist hands, in hers. So different they were, his soft, flawless skin in contrast to her sun-browned, coarse one. Once she had been soft and pale too; years of hard labor hardened and tempered her, inside and out.

"That night, I could see only two paths. Either I wed Robert and live a half-life with him, or... I thought of Lysa Tully. Of poor, sweet Lysa Tully, locked in an asylum because she loved where she should not. Would my father send me to one, I asked myself. What if I had a babe? What would become of us?"

“I would have protected you, Lya,” he said, those soulful eyes of his turned sad and warm. His hand disentangled from hers to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow under her eye.

”Yes; you would.”

_And I would be at your mercy then. Depending on your charity, and your interest. You, soon to be styled King Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name._

Lyanna was not so mean as to say it out loud. Rhaegar was not a cruel, immoral man by nature, although others would argue otherwise, what with his involvement with her. He liked to think of himself as a honorable, truthful man; everyone did. But she knew better than to trust the constancy of his sentiments. He wanted her because he could not have her, because she was exotic, a mystery; and then, he wanted her because she left him.

Had she stayed, would he still want her, once the luster of her maidenly youth was gone and when her belly was thick with child? Or would he have found another maiden, another sweet mystery to discover? Oh, she had no doubt he would find a cozy little arrangement for her, maybe some small allowance for her troubles. The thought made her stomach coil in revulsion.

”Interestingly, Elia Martell was the only one to ask what I wanted. I told her then, and it remains true. I wanted to live as I saw fit, as my own woman. So I did.”

She turned her face to kiss his palm. Lyanna did not expect him to understand, but then, she didn’t need him to. A ruined woman she might be, a whore and a hussy in the eyes of society, but she was her own woman; she lived for no master, no one other than her son and her horse.

”Lyanna Stark died on the Trident the day after her brother’s wedding to Lady Catelyn Tully-Stark. Danny Snow appeared in her place, a woman with no connections beyond those forged by herself.”

Rising to her feet once again, she turned to Jon Connington, the sad smile on the young man’s face mirroring her own. They had much in common, Jon and Lyanna; the principal being that they both loved where they should not.

That the object of their love was the same, only made the dynamics more interesting.

”It grows late,” she said, not daring to look at him, lest she falter in her resolve. “You’d better leave. It would not do for the Prince Regent to be seen in such a place at such hour. I have neglected my guests enough. I trust you will not alert my kin to my presence here...?”

She heard him stand, knowing her dismissal for what it was. Before he could leave, however, she turned back to him.

”You may return during the day, if you wish. It is less damning to be seen in a tea shop than in a molly house.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes dark and for once, fathomless. Then nodded, and left without a word, Jon trailing behind with a softly whispered good night.

Sighing to herself, Lyanna took a few seconds to recompose her façade and disappear into Danny Snow once again. Then, with a smile on her lips that did not reach her eyes, she went back to the gaiety and laughter of her guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** the 19th century saw the proliferation of asylums for the mentally unsound, or those considered as such by 19th century standards. While some people in asylums no doubt did have mental illnesses, many did not; these included people who were considered moral or social deviants. Women in special could be institutionalized with ‘hysteria’ — which could be virtually anything.
> 
> While ‘treatments’ varied, a popular one was the water treatment. The person in question was blindfolded and tied to a chair, and either dunked or showered in cold water at irregular intervals. If this sounds like waterboarding the crazy out of people, it's because that's exactly what it was. The idea was to cause shock and fear and therefore jolt the brain back into order, as well as cooling down inflammation of the brain.
> 
> There is at least one recorded case of a woman interned in the asylum for ‘madness’ (she wanted to leave her husband) who was treated like this three times before deemed sane (that is, accepting to go back and sleep with her husband again).


	3. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar is 100% done with all the things.

He didn’t need this. Didn’t need the heartache, the pain and yes, the desire burrowing under his skin. His life was already difficult enough with his kingdom in shambles, hanging to a precarious thread, and his sanity with it.

Rhaegar’s greatest fear was madness, and he felt dangerously close to it. Closer and closer, with every sleepless night, with every conflict, every revelation. It had broken his father’s mind, the Duskendale plot, although Aerys had never been fully sane. He did not wish to follow on the same path.

Of course, he hadn’t been captured and likely tortured. Quite the opposite.

His mother always said he felt too much. Too intensely. Too deeply. That it would be his ruin.

That night still felt like a dream.

A dream he remembered vividly. The feel of her skin. The taste of her on his lips. The way her nails sank into his back, over and over, his own fingers sinking through her hair.

Kissing. Five years past and the memory of kissing her still haunted his waking dreams. He’d seduced her with his music. He’d been well past caring for propriety and right and wrong. Five years past, and he could scarcely look at his own piano without remembering the feeling of her sweet mouth opening to his. She’d never kissed anyone before.

So he did. Kissed her and kissed her, in the Riverrun music room and in his bed later that same night, burning her skin with his scruff, the one nobody believed he had, it was so pale. Kissing was the least depraved thing he’d done to her that night and yet, he couldn’t forget it.

He hadn’t be able to play since that night.

He still wore her locket, the one she’d left him.

War in their territories across the sea, a war they were in serious risk of losing. Murmurs about the Ironborn rising up against the union again. His father’s persistent neglect of the North and of Dorne, as well as his blatant disregard towards both kingdoms, inspiring separatist sentiments again. A failed marriage to a woman lost in her calculations rather than the affairs of the kingdom she seemed to have no interest in. A brother already showing signs of madness and a mother broken by years of abuse.

His heir was a ten year old girl.

And, of course, _her_.

The least of his problems, but the one that may well be the match that will light up the wildfire in his veins and his mind. Through this brief acquaintance she’d been a respite from his troubles, from the spiraling chaos in his mind. Their letters were a balm to his soul, a gentle breeze — fresh like the North but warm, so warm.

He’d been hurt when she left. It was nothing compared to seeing her again, just to hear the sound rejection in her voice.

He’d come back from the molly house, tolerating Jon’s idle chatter even though it grated along his nerves, felt like sandpaper on the surface of his brain. He’d climbed to his lonely, ostentatious room, the one countless generations before him inhabited, locked the door behind him, lit a cigar and stared out into the darkness until the wee hours of the morning.

_Is he mine?_

_No._

A son. A son she’d deny him. He knew, he knew the boy was his, though no one would believe so at first glance. Knew instinctively, deep in his bones, the moment he clapped eyes on the child.

He knew it was a lie and still the dark, shapeless thing inside of him hissed and snapped at the thought of her with someone else, someone who was not him.

It look all of his discipline to not go back to her the next morning, begging like a dog for scraps. Instead, he’d cleared his mind as best as he could, numbed the void in his heart with wine, and went back to work in his study, pushing all thoughts of Lyanna Stark and the child they made together away from him.

If his documents had an uncharacteristic shaky penmanship that day, well, it was no matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes today :)


	4. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna has a perfectly normal day until it’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GET A PERSONALITY AND YOU GET A PERSONALITY EVERYONE GETS A PERSONALITYYY  
Seriously though half the fun of writing these characters is giving them an actual life beyond plot convenience

Her fine establishment looked a lot different in the day.

The Snow House was not particularly big, but it was quite pleasant. Ensconced in Silk Street, it perhaps did not have the best location; but it was still reputable enough to attract a few good patrons unaware (or perhaps too aware) of its second life as a molly house. The fine decorations in Yi Ti style, representing scenes of snowy mountains and landscapes, offered a cool, cozy look to the room. The corner position and windows gave it a light, airy feel and if the day crowd wondered about the heavy, dark curtains that framed the very same windows, they did not ask.

Most of her daylight patrons were working class men and women. Most, she knew, looking for a spot of tea or a freshly baked confection to sop away the alcohol and excesses of the prior night. Artists, authors, the occasional lawyer and merchant, and working girls — actresses and singers and dancers. It was quite the lively crowd.

Watching over the people milling in to break their fast, the conversation and laughter and animated discussions, Lyanna felt the usual warmth fill her chest. Hardship and heartache aside, she was rather proud of what she’d accomplished.

”Uncle Jon!”

Her boy’s sweet voice broke through her day dreams, as the boy hopped away from his chair and ran full tilt at the man in question, latching on his legs like a limpet. She smiled as Jon Connington swung the boy up and on his hip, with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a dozen times.

”Hello, little namesake. By the gods, it has been scarcely a week and you’ve already grown!”

Her boy beamed, puffing his little chest proudly. Little Jon had had a cold, and thus had not seen his favorite (only) uncle in the week it took for him to recover, sequestered in her private apartments with Jesse while she worked.

”He will grow even more if he finishes his breakfast,” she said, and Jon settled her son back on his chair, the boy attacking his scones with gusto.

”Good morn, my dear,” he smacked a kiss on her forehead, making her smile again. It always shocked her a little, how _exuberant_ Connington could be. “You look positively ghastly!”

”And you look like a bird from the Summer Isles, as always,” she shrugged, but chuckled anyway. She _did_ look ghastly; she hadn’t had a wink of sleep the night before. “Correct, though. Can you blame me?”

“My dear, you would do well to assume I am always correct. And no, I cannot. I had many a night awake because of our mutual acquaintance in the day. I shed many a tear indeed. Not always in sorrow, mind...”

She laughed outright at that, attracting fond looks from her regular patrons — even her son flashing them a bright smile, sharing in the mirth even as their conversation flew over his head. Smiling slyly, her partner tossed a newspaper on the table, which she took.

”He is rather good at it, isn’t he?”

”Indeed. Makes me wonder why Elia let him go so easily...”

To a stranger she supposed they looked like an unorthodox, but loving family: Connington wiping little Jon’s face and serving him his breakfast tart, Lyanna reading the newspaper, her son chattering to them about this and that. It was utterly domestic, and it quieted the voice in her heart that longed for such things. She knew it fed a similar urge in him.

Meeting Jon Connington in New Valyria was such a serendipity, the type that made her question whether the gods were real and whether they took mercy on her, in spite of her transgressions. He’d come to rent her horse to impress some fellow and, finding her a solitary mother with a newborn, took pity on her. It was only much later that she’d confided her true identity to him.

That led to conflict. But Jon had a good nature, as well as a healthy dislike for nobility, and here they were.

It was his investment that led to the creation of the Snow House; _for my little namesake’s future_, he’d said. She took care of the establishment during day and night and he benefited from having a place to meet with his acquaintances, as well as, of course, a margin of the profits. Thus, it was not unusual for her regulars to see him there — and of course, his status drew more and more people in.

”Oh, that woman is more intelligent than all of us combined. She must’ve tired of the brooding. I hear she’s quite taken with Baelor Hightower.”

”Good for her. Mad scientists, the both of them. They do match better than she and our fearless leader.”

She smiled ruefully at the bitterness in Jon’s voice. She knew he resented the way their relationship ended, namely, Rhaegar Targaryen wedding Elia Martell. That he’d later taken with her as a point of contention between him and Lyanna as well; she knew Jon still loved their silver prince, although he knew nothing could come of it, much as she herself did. Still, one cannot quite rule one's heart.

Personally, Lyanna believed it was not the marriage that broke them apart but rather Rhaegar’s mounting jealousy of Jon’s fame. It was what their mutual friend longed for the most; the one thing he, who ruled over them, could not have.

The gods, if they existed, did enjoy their petty ironies.

Letting her eyes drift over the newspaper, she surveyed the news of the kingdom, starting, as usual, with wedding announcements, births and obituaries. Even in her self-imposed exile, Lyanna kept abreast of the kingdom’s news. It was how she kept track of her family. How she knew Eddard wedded Ashara Dayne, how she knew the woman earned moderate success with her first novel, how she knew Brandon had three children. Nobles made ripples far and wide; it was the way of their world.

Rebellions. Wars. Insurgency. These were also part and parcel of their world. She’d seen it first hand in New Valyria. It certainly helped broaden her horizons and perspective of humanity beyond the greenhouse safety of her station in life.

”Do you think we can win this war?” she asked out loud.

”Heavens, no. Rhaegar would do well to concede their independence already. Such a pointless waste of young bodies.”

While she knew Jon was as anti-monarchic as they came (another irony, considering he was in love with their future king), and she wasn’t, necessarily, she had to agree. She’d seen the war first hand; even fired a few shots, in defense of herself and other women during an unexpected raid by Westerosi soldiers. Seeing their lifeless bodies after filled her with such a pain. She saw little Benjen in those boys, and Brandon, and Ned.

Her youngest brother would soon be old enough to enlist. She knew he likely would. Lyanna did not wish to think of him suffering and dying for a lost cause.

She missed her brothers, even her father, but Benjen she missed most of all. She’d almost sent him a letter, once or twice, before changing her mind. It wouldn't be right to force her brother to hold such a secret for her -- it wouldn't be right to give him hope. It was Benjen who made her reconsider all the choices she'd made, all the possible paths she could've taken; and still, she could not see another way that did not lead her where she went.

Shaking such melancholy thoughts from her mind, she took a glance at her pocket watch — there were things to do, errands to run, before the luncheon time when there would be a second wave of patrons in her establishment.

Saying her goodbyes to Connington, she left him to his breakfast and newspaper, took her son’s hand in hers and led him back to their apartments on the back of the second floor of the building, the child’s small fingers twining easily with her own.

He was a quiet child, her Jon, but a happy one; he smiled and laughed often, and once you gained his trust, he talked quite a bit. Their lives were not always easy, but full of love; that, she thought, mattered more than staid frigidity of certain circles, dancing to the tune of an unheard music, twined in propriety and rules they were not privy to.

”Here we go baby,” she kissed his face, as she often did. “Be good to Jesse while I’m busy, okay?”

Her sweet boy nodded, quite content to be with his nanny. Jesse was a true godsend to her; he was sweet, kind and great with Jon. It made her heart ache that such a considerate young man would be destitute due to his proclivities; she was happy to give him a bed to sleep, food to eat and a pay to live off.

It also made her giggle, to think of what old, staid, Lord Stark would think of the bastard son of his wayward daughter being in company of people such as Jesse and Jon Connington, or the patrons who cooed over his curls — many of whom were prostitutes.

As she went into her room to gather her hat, she found a raven sitting on her windowsill. At first, she couldn’t quite guess what exactly the bird was doing there — until she noticed the scroll tied to the bird’s leg.

Westeros hadn’t used ravens as means of communication for a good century. But then, as she unrolled the message and read it, she understood.

_”There is a cabin in the shadow of the castle, by the sea. Meet me there tomorrow at 3. Do not bring anyone with you. - R.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** Franz Liszt was so incredibly popular and famous in his time that he amassed a fortune just from touring, perhaps the first musician to do so. This was due to his incredible skill, good looks and stage presence; people at the time wrote about how audiences (especially women) went hysterical over him. By his mid-forties he started donating all further he earned from performances to charity and social projects, playing concerts to raise money for the homeless of Hamburg after a fire, helping to build schools, churches, monuments and even a gymnasium.


	5. Toccata

Lord Rickard Stark was in a quandary.

He stared at the telegram on his desk. It had only four words: _she-wolf returned to Westeros_. Such simple words, but so significant to him, to his heritage, to what he meant to build for the North and for his descendants.

His daughter was back.

His only, wayward daughter, the Rose of Winterfell, had finally come back to roost on her homeland. His sweet, ruined daughter returned. Rickard Stark never disinherited her, too concerned with her safety to think of retribution, but now that she was back...

Now he had to think on what to do.

Lyanna was a clever girl, too clever by half, but she had a tendency to underestimate her sire. He knew that she thought him not particularly concerned or interested in her — he would’ve been insulted, but Rickard knew he was not a warm, loving man. His daughter, on the other hand, was more fire than ice, restless and loving in turns, a wolf among dogs.

The Starks still held sway, although nowhere near as much as it was in the past. Rickard had set his men at King’s Landing and Lannisport, and even as far as Dorne, on watch. He knew it was foolish to look for a girl; at nine and ten Lyanna was more comfortable than not in men’s clothes, and she could easily pass as a young man. Hair could be dyed, and she’d left her braid as a token of her disregard, the braid she cultivated since before her mother’s death.

If he wanted to find his daughter, he need not look for a young woman. He need only look for a dappled stallion with blond mane and the mark of Highgarden on his rump. Beyond the horse's quality, it also had a distinctive appearance -- which was much easier to spot than a young woman's face.

A clever woman, his daughter was, but one who would rather die than leave her precious horse behind. One would think her unnatural attachment to the beast would have made her sweeter to the one who gifted him; yet no such thing happened, much to Lord Stark’s chagrin.

So he’d sent his men around Westeros with photographs of the horse, rather than of his daughter. The stallion would be easier to find and wherever Stormhawk was, Lyanna would not be too far behind.

She’d been seen boarding to Essos with the horse, and that is when his trail ended. He had not alerted Prince Rhaegar. The man was willing to aid, that was true, but Rickard knew too well why.

The Prince wanted his daughter to be his mistress. That was glaringly obvious. He'd seen it with his own eyes, during his son's wedding, the way that, even with his wife by his side, he would not look away from his daughter. Rickard asked himself whether that was the reason Lyanna chose to leave her birthright, her betrothed, and her family behind; whether she'd intended to follow through with the Prince's desires or escape him, he did not know. He hadn't been in Lyanna's confidence... ever, if he thought about it. She'd always preferred to go to her governess, or to Brandon, rather than to him.

Lord Stark knew he was not an examplary father. He hadn't known how to deal with children, much less with girl-children and their strange demands. It was not that he did not care. If he did not, he would not spend so much effort trying to find her. But he knew he was not quick to express it, or let her know he did love her, that she was his daughter.

He knew he was a harsh man, strict and even distant; but it still hurt to see how little Lyanna cared for him and her bloodline. He’d been lax with her, that was true, but nonetheless, it grated.

Was it because of Robert? He’d only wished to secure her future. Lyanna was too unconventional for most men; that Lord Baratheon wanted her was a surprise.

Rickard knew his daughter had loved his ward, Domeric Bolton. He knew it was reciprocated. So he’d tested Domeric’s commitment to her, whether he would fight for their relationship. That had backfired. He didn’t think Dom would give up so easily, but by then, the deed was done.

He’d lost both his ward and his daughter.

But now she was back.

And he had to decide what to do.

Perhaps it was time he went to King’s Landing. Maybe he would take Benjen with him. Lyanna had always been partial to the boy.

Yes. That sounded right.

Ringing the bell that summoned his man, Rodrik, Lord Stark smiled to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical notes this time... just apologizing for the crappiness since I managed to get myself sick again *rolls eyes*


	6. Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonists have a conversation. An agreement is forged.

The shiver running down her spine had nothing to do with the cold sea breeze coursing through her clothes. This felt like a trap. It _was_ one, she supposed.

“This isn’t exactly ‘by the shadow of the castle’, is it?”

"It is. The Red Keep casts a long shadow.”

She felt he meant more than his words, but then, he always did. It was hard for her to contain the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she stared at the man leaning against the doorframe of the cabin, arms crossed over his chest. There was a peculiar quality to those violet eyes of his. _Intent_. She supposed that’s what they were, staring her down like a predator to prey.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, one she was not used to. Lyanna did not often feel small, or in danger — and those eyes spoke danger loud and clear.

Oh, she did not believe he was going to harm her. Not physically, in any case. No, the game they played was far worse. She could defend herself from a physical attack; she had in the past, against worse odds. But this was something else altogether. Something far worse and long lasting. The pull low in her belly, the warmth she could feel there, scared her more than a gun pointed at her face.

_Five years. It's been five years..._

Her fingers tightened in Storm’s mane. Her horse pawed the sand, snorting. Primed to run, just as she was.

It figured she’d be more intimidated by him in simple, fisherman’s clothes, standing barefoot in a cabin by the sea, than in all his royal fripperies. He had his hair in a braid, she noticed. Something she’d never seen him wear.

“Will you come in?”

Question as much as challenge. She dismounted, careful, patting Storm’s nose when her sweet love made to follow, eager to remain near. She didn’t bother to tie him in; Storm never wandered far on his own.

The cabin happened to be in an islet across from the beach itself, connected by a sand bank. It was in the shallows, which provided some protection during the storms; the waves broke far out and away from where they were. Inside, she could see it was but one room; a stove, a desk, a couple chairs, a bed... a piano. _How convenient._

“Quite cozy, isn’t it,” she quipped, as she settled on one of the proffered chairs.

“One of my ancestors, whoever he was, appreciated his peace. I find I share his taste.”

“I’m sure you do.”

The Prince settled across from her, legs crossed, staring her down. For a long moment they simply watched each other, and Lyanna felt it against her skin, the silence, the weight of his eyes on her. Such remarkable eyes. It was hard to look at them and not remember, remember them alight with pleasure —

“What do you wish of me, Rhaegar?”

He smiled. It felt like a predator baring its teeth. He did not answer, but she felt it in the marrow of her bones. _Everything_.

”I mean, why did you ask me here?”

”Ah,” he hummed. “That is another matter, isn’t it?”

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Lyanna stopped herself before she could want to kiss the line of his throat. He noticed; she could see him peer at her from under his eyelashes, a smile quirking his lips. While Rhaegar was not vain, most of the time anyway, he knew who he was, knew his allure, and was not above using it against her.

”Frankly, I do not know,” he sighed, standing back up and pacing the small cabin. “At first, I thought to seduce you into being mine again.”

She felt a full body shiver at that. Fear warred with desire, and she knew he could tell from the sudden rigidness of her spine and the way her fingers clenched around the arm rests of the chair.

_Run_.

”Yet I know how foolish that would be. You made it loud and clear that you have no need for me. I would not humiliate myself to this level.”

_I do. I do_.

“_Need_ is a strong word, Your Grace.”

”Yes,” he said, and she knew he picked on the formality they’d ever so casually dropped. Propriety and titles felt pointless once you had someone’s face between your legs; and still, it was a shield; one of the last she had at her disposal.

”It is. Yet it is appropriate. There are many forms to need, my lady.”

She made no answer to that, watching as he paced. The drab, fisherman’s garb made him, strangely, even more enticing; it showed the strength in his arms and his calves, the breadth of his chest through the loosely-laced shirt.

“I know your regard is not mine to have,” he continued and she ground her teeth against the hurt in those words. “But I thought maybe you may still have some fondness for me, in your heart, to introduce me to our son.”

Her Prince might as well have doused her with cold water at that; all thoughts of desire and giving in left just as quick as they had come, disappearing under a far more urgent matter.

Jon.

He wanted to meet Jon. Her son. _Their_ son.

Jon, with his bright smile that was all Rhaegar and his dark curls and grey eyes. Jon who was quiet and thoughtful like his father, but who loved being outside and had a deep fondness for dogs. Jon who earned his first braid at three from a Dothraki bloodrider for catching a field mouse; the man had laughed and called him a great hunter and Jon beamed and showed off his braid. It had since come undone, but she still kept the tiny bell for him.

Her son. Her son who learned his first knots from a Braavosi sailor as they boarded to Westeros, who sat a saddle as soon as he could hold his head, who even at five could ride Storm as surely as she did. Her Jon, who sometimes came down in the night when he should be asleep, to play house with the gents at the molly house, pretending to be the babe they would never have, just to make them smile and forget for a few hours. Her son was prone to insomnia, a trait she suspected he shared with his father. Her sweet boy who played with the children of prostitutes and dissolute men, none the wiser of his birth and position.

Lyanna Stark was a noble woman, one of the highest ranking in Westeros, on par with Cersei Lannister, Catelyn Tully-Stark and Elia Martell. Yet Jon was not son of that woman. He was child to Danny Snow, adventurer, trick rider, business woman; he was as salt of the earth as they came, and she made him that way. Perhaps it was wrong of her to deny him his heritage, his blood, his prospects; she could not find it in herself to regret it.

Her baby had never asked who his father was. She thought that, being around the whores of the Street of Silk and playing with their children, he was used to the idea of bastards and fatherless children; and likely assumed Jon Connington to be his sire, anyway, although he’d never addressed the man as such. He knew who the Prince Regent was, of course, everyone did, but to know him as a father... to know himself a royal bastard, that was something else altogether. Something Lyanna was not sure she could commit to.

Yes, that fear inside of her, the fear he would take her child from him, that fear was alive in her, burrowing under her skin. But how could she deny the man his own child? How could she deny the man the privilege of knowing such a sweet, caring boy?

“Why?”

Men, in her personal experience, cared little for their progeny, least of all natural sons and daughters. Their role ended in providing; it was a woman’s job to raise the child, until the sons were old enough to matter.

”I have given up Aegon, essentially,” he said by way of explanation. “He lives in Dorne, with Elia, as he should. It is the least I could do. And Rhaenys... she is my heir. There is another dynamic there, one that complicates things. I do love her, but it changes not that she has her own role to fill. Is it so strange I would like to meet the child we created?”

”As a substitute for your lost, Dornish son?”

”As the product of our love. Or, the love I believed we shared.”

She left that barb alone; there was no point in going there. The thought of Jon around him made her uneasy, made her wary, and yet... how could she deny it? What right did she have?

He could force her. To give up her child, her livelihood. She did not believe him cruel, but...

”Here. We meet here, away from prying eyes. I do not wish this weight to be on his back. He is a child, Rhaegar...”

His smile was equal parts breathtaking and terrifying.

_What have I done?_


	7. Mazurka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon solves a mystery!

There was something going on, something Jon could not quite figure.

His Mama was acting odd, and it rubbed Jon in all the wrong ways, made him fidgety and wary. She was distracted in their morning lessons; she was distracted during breakfast; she often spoke to Uncle Jon in hushed voices, a ways away from him, as if she didn’t want him to listen.

This is what bothered him the most; at the age of five, Jon was a big boy, and thus, he had the right to know what was going on! But his mother would not tell him, even as he asked; she would just smile a sad smile, and brush the hair of his face, and say he needed a bath.

Jon did not need a bath, if he said so himself. He needed answers! He'd tried to pry something out of his Uncle Jon, but even his favorite person in the entire world (after Mama, of course) did not seem to know what was going on. That just made the whole thing even more mysterious; Mama shared everything with Uncle Jon, and he was always around. He'd noticed the change in Mama's behavior, but all he could tell Jon was that it was likely "her moon". It didn't make any sense to Jon, because what did the moon have to do with it? It was just the moon.

No, there was a MYSTERY going on, and Jon was going to find it out.

Jon loved mysteries, puzzles and conundrums. Uncle Jon said he inherited it from his daddy, which was odd because Mama said he was the son of a DRAGON, and he was not aware that dragons were fond of mysteries. Besides, dragons didn’t exist anymore, which was puzzling. Maybe he’d hatched out of a dragon egg; he knew those existed. Would that mean he was a dragon?!

For a moment Jon lost himself to the possibility he was, in fact, a dragon, before shaking the thoughts away. No, he had to focus on the mystery at hand. His Mama was weird and he was going to figure out why!

Evading Jesse was easy, although he felt a little bad about the concern in his nanny’s eyes. Jesse was his third favorite person in the entire world, so lying to her made Jon feel guilty. But! He had a mystery to solve, so he would apologize later.

So he pretended to be sleepy, even a bit sick, so Jesse put him to bed; and when his nanny went around doing her usual chores, he tiptoed his way out of their apartment and into Mama’s office, so he could find some answers. If there was something going on, Mama’s office would be the place to figure it out. Jon wasn't allowed there most of the time; not without Mama, anyway. But he knew she spent a lot of time there, and he knew that if she had to hide something, it would be there. Nobody went there without her, not even Jesse, therefore, it was the perfect place to hide a secret. Right? Right!

Except the door was locked. And his Mama carried the key with her at all times — and she was not there, having gone out to run her errands and care for Storm.

Well. What now?

Uncle Jon always said he was a resourceful little mongrel (his words; Mama did not appreciate it), so Jon guessed he could figure out a way in. Mama's office had a window; that one was never locked, especially not during the day, as the office was on the second floor. If Jon could get outside, he could climb the wall's panneling and get in!

So he did. Scurrying outside was relatively easy; he knew the way through the kitchens from observing Jesse going out to meet her love during the night, the love she denied she had. Uncle Jon called him a p-a-r-a-m-o-u-r, but Jesse called him love so that's what Jon called him, too.

Climbing was not as easy, but he managed. Jon wasn't as fond of climbing as his best friend Serra (his fourth favorite person in the entire world) was, but he knew how. He'd learned how in Essos, when he was a wee baby of four, after all, and he and Serra often raced up-walls when they could.

Maybe he _was_ a dragon!!

Dragon or not, he swung himself to the windowsill and into the office, doing a little victory jig once his feet hit the floor. He did it! Now it was time to investigate!

Opening drawers and peering at papers, he sought something that looked like a mystery. Jon knew how to read; he was not as good at it as Serra, who was very intelligent, but he did alright. Sums, however, were another story and he peered at an open book at Mama’s desk, mystified by the rows and rows of numbers. He was terrible at sums.

There were letters, too, strewn over the desk. All seemed ordinary. Maybe there was a code?! But then how would he break it?!

No. That could not be it.

Rummaging through the desk, he eventually found something — a bundle of letters signed only “R”, addressed to “L”. He had no idea who “L” was, but it looked sufficiently mysterious and he settled down on Mama’s chair to read them. The letters -- more like notes -- were short and to the point, with increasingly harsh words and commands to whoever this L person was. Jon didn't understand the whole of it, but it gave him a funny feeling; a bad feeling almost.

So engrossed was he on the notes, he did not notice the door open until his Mama was standing right in front of him.

"JON! HOW IN BLAZES DID YOU GET IN HERE? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU DEVIL CHILD?"

Uh oh.

Jon was usually a calm, quiet child. That did not mean he did not have a temper, when piqued -- which thankfully wasn't often. Uncle Jon called it "waking the dragon". His mother called it "wolf blood". Whatever it was, true to form, rather than be cowed, he stood on the chair (another no-no from Mama, but in for a stag, in for a dragon), his own hands at his waist, and yelled back.

"I WAS SOLVING THE MYSTERY!"

That, somehow, made his Mama blink and stare at him.

"What in the world? What mystery, child? What is your mind creating now?"

"THE MYSTERY! THE ONE THAT IS MAKING YOU ALL UPSET AND THAT YOU WON'T TELL ME!"

He braced himself for a scolding, but it didn't come; instead, he saw as his Mama basically deflated, eyes downcast. She looked terribly upset, and that took the wind out of Jon's sails, too. He hated when his Mama was upset; for so long it was only the two of them, he didn't like seeing his favorite in the entire world hurt, or sad, or sick. Thankfully, those things happened rarely, but it made a gnawing of guilt start burrowing in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn't have climbed the walls and crawled through the window.

She came over to him, taking him into her arms, and Jon fought the urge to cry. His mother cuddled him on her lap, sitting down with him straddling her waist, and he automatically rested his head on her shoulder, tucked close under her chin. Mama wasn't a tall woman, but she was strong; his hands felt the muscle on her arms, a nervous habit he'd had since babyhood. He let himself be soothed, her hand brushing his unruly locks, which were so like her own, relishing in the warmth and closeness of his mother -- even if he was sad because she was sad, being together always eased things up.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't think you noticed. Mama is dealing with some... issues... adult issues. Things you don't need to worry about, alright?" He nodded, although some part of him still worried; it was Jon's duty to care for his mother, and that he was unable to upset him greatly.

He cried a little against her shoulder, letting her sooth him, his transgression forgotten. And it was because he looked over her shoulder that he saw the raven land on the window behind them.

”Mama,” he asked, wonder in his voice. “Why is there a raven on the windowsill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** the concept of childhood as a time for play and learning is relatively modern. Prior to the 17th century, children were seen as essentially incomplete adults; a notion that changed around that century to a perception of children as innocent and in need of protection and care, especially of a moral and religious manner.
> 
> That did not stop people from exploiting the labour of children in factories during the 19th century — something that only ended in England by the tail end of the Victorian era, when education became widespread and compulsory. It was also around that time that the age of consent was raised to 13. Yeah.
> 
> Being middle class, even if poorer middle class, Jon wouldn’t be expected to work this early — the same could not be said from his lower-class peers. In either case, young children still had a lot more freedom than they do today — and a lot more obligations and responsibilities, too. I debated whether a child of five would be able to climb a wall, but my reasoning was that a child encouraged to be physically active from the earliest age would be stronger and more dexterous than a more sheltered child.


	8. Valse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna angsts. Rhaegar seduces. Kind of.

Lyanna hated being cornered.

She hated this, this back and forth, this pressure; this sensation of being lost and not knowing what to do, whether she was in the right or in the wrong. She always had her path so clear before her: first, to wed Domeric; then, when that failed, to make a living in Essos. To establish herself and not depend on the graces of men who used _her_ as a bargaining chip. But now, now she had nothing; she had no idea what was the right path to follow, where to go. She knew she could not avoid Rhaegar forever; she knew his pressure would only get stronger.

That her son had seen the letters only filled her with unease. She knew her baby did not fully understand what was going on, but he'd picked up on her distress. Something that should not have surprised her; Jon was incredibly empathetic; he could read a room, much like she could -- even more than her. Yet now that he knew something was going on, now that he'd read the letters, that he'd seen the raven... no. Thankfully, he did not know who L was; and she had to misdirect his questions without telling him the truth, but also without lying.

But it was clear that her time was running out, and she had to do _something_. Even if that something was to pick her son and run.

Would he let her go? That was also a question in the back of her mind. He wanted her, she knew that, but he'd seemed content to let her go -- or, at least, to forget her, as much as possible, and let her be. His son, her son, however, was another matter. She wasn't so sure he'd forget their child as easily as he'd let her go. She wouldn't put it above him to alert Lord Stark of her reappearance, if she kept denying him. Sure, Lyanna had managed to stall him for almost a fortnight, but how long would the Prince Regent's patience last?

_Tomorrow. Bring the boy. - R_

That was open a threat as it could be. If she didn't show, would he send someone after her? Would he retaliate? She wanted to believe he wouldn't, that he would be understanding and yet... yet how could she risk it? Perhaps she was just paranoid, perhaps there would be no harm in letting her boy meet his father; perhaps it was unfair of her, to push him away, to deny her son his heritage and all that it meant; yet, how could she risk it? How could she risk her boy's welfare, his future, on something as simple as sentiment?

In the end, it was Jon himself who solved the mystery, as he said.

The die were cast. She could only hope it landed in their favor.

***

"Stay here," she told her boy. His face had a bright smile, happy for the adventure, she was sure, although she knew he felt her nerves -- his excitement just overwhelmed everything. It had been a long time since they went riding, just the two of them, something she was sure she had need to correct, but... well. If things went as they should, they would have more excursions like this. Hopefully.

”No listening behind the door, okay? Stay on the saddle. Storm will keep watch.”

Jon nodded enthusiastically. She slid from the saddle and went in; the door was, as expected, unlocked. As expected, he was there, in his shabby fisherman’s clothes, waiting for her from the upholstered chair that was so at odds with the overall look of the shack by the sea.

”So you did come...”

”Yes.”

He did not say anything, but she knew the question in his eyes. It made her squirm, and pace, finally giving voice to the anxious energy in her, made worse by the careful stillness in him. She hated this. Hated it, but there was nothing else to be done.

”He only knows me as Danny Snow, so you will address me as such. He is also very attached to me, and very attuned to feelings; if he feels in any way too uncomfortable, we leave, and if he expresses a desire to not come back, I will respect it. He does not know you are his father, or even that he has one at all. Do not tell him otherwise without my permission. I will be with you at all times. My son is the most precious thing I have. I will fight to the death to make sure he is safe and unharmed. I swear to Gods Old and New, Rhaegar, I will disappear from this world before I let you —“

”Lya.”

She hadn’t even seen him stand, so lost in the pinkish haze of her anxiety. Blinking, she found him impossibly near — his hands cradling her face, ever so gentle, as if he didn’t want to startle her. It halted her maddened pacing as effectively as a slap to the face, broke through her feverish thoughts. Made her still like a rabbit under a wolf's gaze.

”Peace.”

His eyes were such a lovely shade of purple — like a priceless amethyst. How her body betrayed her, how her eyes went to his mouth before going back to his eyes, made her shudder; it disgusted her, her weakness. How easily he could disarm her and render her powerless; how quick those buried feelings could surface, the sweet, nameless warmth that made her want to relax and fold and give in to him. To trust.

_No._

Her hands went to his wrists, on instinct.

”I will bring him in. Remember my words, Rhaegar.”

As the door shut behind her, she pretended she could not hear him sigh.


	9. Arioso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar behaves like a beast. Lya’s Not Amused.

The boy had his eyes, no matter that they were the same pewter gray as his mother’s and that peculiar crook in his smile was all Rhaenys. The way he tilted his head, curious and wary, was all Lyanna, but the mask on his young face, the mask that hid his shyness and uncertainty, was all Rhaegar.

This was his son. He had no doubt of it. No one who saw them together would be able to deny the boy was a Targaryen — his coloring might throw them off, a little, like it did with Rhaenys, but the dragon blood was strong, and it showed through. Those dark curls were the same as young Aegon’s, the same as Viserys; dark like his sister’s, but textured like his.

_Targaryens do not kneel,_ his father’s voice came unbidden to him. _Except, that is, to other Targaryens._ There were lewd implications in the wording, but he knew what his father the king meant to convey. Aerys himself never knelt to gods or men, not even during his coronation. He’d never lowered himself to speak to his children. Crouched in that humble fisher’s cabin, in garb his father would burn straight out of his skin, Rhaegar could smile from the irony of it.

He would kneel before a Targaryen. That is what his son was.

”Hello, Jon,” he said. He could not call him son, lest his mother take him away. Her stress was tangible, a live, tangible thing between them. He knew what she feared, how could he not? She made her rejection of him and of who he was loud and clear.

”Hullo.” His son’s voice was sweet. The child clung to his mother’s pantaloons, suddenly shy, half-hiding behind her. The woman’s fingers brushed through the unruly, dark locks, in a manner that gave light to long-buried feelings in him, a bittersweet memory. His son no doubt felt that simple gesture as soothing as Rhaegar himself once did.

Rhaegar, like most men, liked to believe himself a man of honor and ethics; a notion that became harder and harder to keep, when confronted with his natural son. Something nameless, dark, altogether uncivilized rose in his breast; something primal he had never felt or understood before.

Lyanna smiled; it never reached her eyes. She pushed their son lightly, at the shoulder, directing him forward — the boy’s hand was rougher than he’d expect from such a young child. But Jon was no Rhaenys and no Aegon; he was not raised in the civilized, urbane world of nobility. There were no perfumed gardens and maids to attend to him, no functions and oils and creams to make him smooth and soft and lovely like a porcelain doll from Yi Ti. No, the brown in his skin was from the sun, the roughness in his palms from climbing and running and working. From a hard play and a hard life.

He had the same wildness seen in his mother. The wildness that drove Rhaegar to distraction.

”How do you do,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Jon. I am Rhaegar.”

Jon smiled, shyness forgotten in favor of curiosity, and graced him with a swift bow -- no doubt taught by his mother. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy had as close to a noble education as she could.

”Rhaegar? Like the Prince?” His son’s eyes were wide as saucers, and if he suspected, he did not say; there was amazement in those pewter eyes.

”Yes child,” he laughed, not giving voice to the question he could see in his son’s eyes. He could feel Lyanna’s wariness, the way she lied with her body. “Like the Prince.”

The primal thing in him whispered to the other side of him, the political man, the Crown Prince he was, no matter what he desired; showed him visions of futures and might-bes. Possibilities. So many possibilities...

It was no secret the Targaryen lineage was on the verge of destruction. His house was limited to himself, an aging mother, a feeble-minded father; his brother who seemed to be as unwell as their sire; and two young children. He knew better than most how precarious such a situation was, for a Royal House. The Usurper’s War was not far from their memory, neither was the Targaryen Reconquest. Yet here, before his very eyes, stood a hale, strapping young boy from his blood, with a strong noble lineage behind him — one older than his own.

He could claim him. He was Prince of Dragonstone, until his father’s passing; and after that the title would pass to Rhaenys and her heirs. Aegon was Lord of Summerhall, or would be when he came of age. He could establish a lordship for Jon. A fine marriage to nobility. Legitimize the boy, claim him as heir, after Rhaenys and Aegon, style him lord... create another Targaryen branch. Ensure his bloodline survived, for at least a few more decades. Perhaps, if he wished, he could even give his son a military position; could send him to New Valyria, to oversee the situation there, when he was grown, and the war was over. It would be so simple, and was he not within his rights? Was the child not his? Was he not the Protector of the Realm? To publicly claim the boy would ensure he had a future, a name, that he was more than just another peasant bastard.

Lyanna would hate him for it. He was sure she already did. Her hand hovered over her hip, where he supposed she wore her pistol; yet she came unarmed to him. Whether to avoid the temptation of violence, or because of trust, he did not know neither care. Yet it was there, the nervous energy simmering under her skin.

"I brought you a gift, little Jon," he said, and once again, the boy's eyes grew wide as saucers. He was a child; of course he loved gifts. He suspected his mama, successful though she may be, likely did not have funds for gifts very often. And Jon Connington, he was sure, for all his riches, knew little and less about children. "Do you want to see it?"

Jon's smile said it all, eyes bright, and that pressure in his chest grew stronger. He shifted to bring his satchel, lying forgotten by the chair, closer. The gift was a small thing: a black tube with mirrors and crystals inside, which, when turned around, produced a myriad different shapes in strange and beautiful patterns and colors. His son tilted his head curiously, peering into the tube, gasping in wonder as he saw the shapes and figures inside.

"It's called a kaleidoscope," he said, smiling as his son peeped like a little bird, twisting the tube in his hands. "A curiosity a good friend of mine sent me, from Dorne. Do you like it?"

His son nodded enthusiastically.

"Thank you m'lord! Thank you!"

"You are quite welcome, Master Jon."

“Jon.”

His son turned on his heels like a well-trained soldier. It didn’t dampen his smile or the flux of excitement in his little face.

”We should go.”

Her tone brooked no argument; Jon did not even bother, nodding a little sadly.

”Wait for me outside with Storm, please. I need to share a few words with Rhaegar.”

”Yes Mama.”

With a bow and whispered goodbye, the boy raced outside, toy clasped firmly in his small hand, untroubled by the undercurrents Rhaegar himself could feel wafting in waves around them.

She was furious; he could see it, clear as day, and the dark, nameless thing inside him stretched in satisfaction, delighting in it. His lover (his _mate_) was fierce. The thrum of violence was sensible under her skin. Still crouched on the dirt floor of the cabin, he had to look up at her. The mix of desire and pride swirling in his veins was a heady thing.

”He does not seem troubled,” he quipped. That had been her terms; that if he was uncomfortable, they would leave; but little Jon was neither uncomfortable or wary of him, not anymore.

”He does not,” she agreed, but her piercing eyes said otherwise. _She _was not comfortable. He knew she felt it, the way he looked at Jon, the machinations in his mind; she could not read his mind, but they had always been clear as glass to each other. Oh yes, she no doubt knew what he wanted.

Or, she thought she knew. She was wrong.

”I will not take the boy from you, Lya.”

_I will claim you, too. My mate and my offspring. Together._


	10. Aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Rickard has a headache. Varys makes a cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We broke 100 kudos! Thanks for the support, everyone :)

It was almost a decade since Rickard Stark came to King’s Landing. The city was very much like he remembered: narrow alleys, old buildings that stood the test of time sprinkled between the newer Valyrian style houses built after the Massacre, a mass of humanity on the move, at all hours.

He had to give it to the lad; the city was much improved from Aerys’s time. There seemed to be less beggars, and the air felt cleaner, in spite of the smog created by the industries. Coal was such a filthy, nasty thing, but the smell of piss and shit, at least, had abated. Still, everything had that blackened feel that made Rickard wrinkle his nose and breathe into his kerchief as soon as he left the ship.

Blackwater Harbor was a very different beast from White Harbor, much like their name suggested. Smaller though it was, it had many more people and a lot more movement. His son’s awed and distasteful look made him smile; his son had scarcely left the North since their sojourn to the Riverlands, and had never seen King’s Landing. He said nothing, though, preferring to observe rather than comment.

Benjen had changed much in the years since his son’s wedding, and especially since Lyanna’s disappearance. His vivacious, playful son had become closed off and shy, so unlike his elder, who drenched his sorrows in wine and song — and likely women as well, although Rickard would rather not think of the latter.

Brandon was dissolute, a rake and a dandy; another failure for Lord Stark, but he had, at least, done his duty, wedding and bedding his wife often enough to keep the peace. He did not overspend and Lady Catelyn kept order with an iron fist — if someone wore the trousers in that household, it was the fierce redheaded Tully, not his son. At least that he had done well; he shuddered to think what a more pliant, demure woman would suffer at his son’s hands.

His man welcomes them, and soon they’re in a carriage and on the way to the townhouse. Like most greater noble families, the Starks have household in King’s Landing; necessary when business calls them to the capital. These days, Rickard had little cause to do so; the Stark fortune was built on lumber and coal, extracted from the vast expanses of the North and Far North, and even the Parliament did not require his presence as much these days.

Benjen had never seen their manse, however, and he could tell his son was surprised and overwhelmed. His wide eyes would say so. His vivacious, gregarious son had grown quiet since his sister’s absence, but Rickard, himself a quiet, taciturn man, learned rather quickly to read him. He was anxious; and underneath the anxiety, he was excited for the adventure.

Leaving him to explore the house and make himself at home, Rickard did not waste time before retreating to his office and ringing for his informants — in special, the one he’d hired especially to find his wayward daughter.

”Varys,” he said, welcoming the man into his office. “Please have a seat.”

The man did so, with a flourish, and they stared at each other.

Varys, no last name, was a shady fellow, but an useful one. The likes of which Rickard Stark would never ordinarily meddle with; but needs must. He was a pudgy, bald man, dressed like a dandy in bright colors, but his keen eyes belied any suggestion that the man might be just an ordinary fop. Like everything else about him, the simpering foppishness was a mummer’s play.

He’d come to Westeros scarce a year ago, and already established himself as the best bloodhound in the continent. It was said Varys held an enormous network of spies across the Seven Kingdoms, and that he would rent out his resources for astronomical prices. The Prince Regent himself was said to employ the man when needed, and that he was needed often.

Truth be told, he had not needed it.

”Lord Stark,” the man began. He had a strange, high voice, almost feminine; rumor said that Varys had been a slave in Lys, and castrated as a child to serve both as a prostitute and as a singer. The thought made him shudder.

”My little birds bring very interesting news. Your she-wolf is indeed in King’s Landing. This envelope contains the address of her residence. But that is not the most interesting news,” he giggled. Rickard felt the hairs on his arms stand on an edge. “She runs a business, the she-wolf does. A tea house that acts as a front for something else at night. A molly house, they say.”

A molly house. His Lyanna, acting like a common tradeswoman, running a den of iniquity no less. Gods. What had his family become? Had he failed House Stark so badly?

”Thank you, Varys.”

”Oh, my lord, that is not all,” he tittered. Rickard had a feeling he enjoyed this. “Your she-wolf seems to have acquired a cub. She is often seen breaking her fast and having tea with Jon Connington, you know, the pianist?” It was a rhetorical question; of course he knew. Jon Connington was one of the most famous musicians in the world. No, scratch that; he was the most famous.

A personal, close friend to the Prince Regent, too.

”The child seems to be around five, and looks startlingly like his mother. There is no doubt he is her natural son.”

Rickard did not like Varys, but he had to credit the man; he went straight to the point and cut no corners. A child. His daughter had a child. She mingled with dissolute men like Connington. Ran a house of sin. Was this what his blood had come to? Illegitimate children and dissipation?

”Oh, and the Sunday last, she was seen riding that horse of hers, child in tow, along the Blackwater beach. My little birds could not follow, as she edged into Targaryen property... but, my lord, methinks you need not be told who she met there, is it not?”

He did not care for the humorous twist to the man’s lips. No, he did not care for it in the least. Rickard ground his teeth, but thanked and paid the man. He could feel a headache mounting.

It seemed his daughter made use of the Starks’ relative obscurity in King’s Landing to not even bother hiding. She moved in plain sight, ran a business and had famous musicians as a patron, all right under Rickard’s nose. She even met with the Prince Regent; he had no doubt it was him she went to meet.

She had a child. A child around five years of age.

Five years, the time she was gone. He recalled how distraught the Prince was, as surprised as Rickard felt by her absence.

_Oh Lyanna, what have you done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** in canon, Varys was castrated for magical purposes. But in our real world, it was not uncommon for impoverished boys to be essentially sold into captivity and castrated before puberty to become singers.
> 
> Because women could not sing in churches, young boys had their testicles removed so as to allow them to keep their high, childish voices — rather than the usual deeper, adult male ones. The church only officially forbade this practice in 1870.
> 
> It was also not uncommon for castrated children to serve as male prostitutes, a practice that sadly remains to date — illegally, but human traffickers generally don’t care for the welfare of their cargo.


	11. Gavotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon plots.

If there was one thing that Jon Connington would say about himself, was that he was first and foremost a businessman.

Others would say he was, first and foremost, a musician; a pianist of rare talent. Those people were not wrong; he was both things; but it was neither his technical ability nor his musical genius that made him as he was now. He could just as well die unremarked and unlamented in some common grave after drinking and fucking his way into death. It had happened before to musicians as talented, if not more, than him.

No, it was his skill with business that kept him afloat through all his life, and to the position he held now. People often dismissed Jon Connington as a fop and a dandy; truthfully, he was both those things. He was also one of the richest men in Westeros, and all through his own talent — not inheritance, no titles, no arranged marriages brought him this position.

He didn’t need the money. In truth, much of it has ended in charities, orphanages and other such places. Still, the journey has been thoroughly enjoyable, if only to spite the likes of Tywin Lannister. There was little that Jon hated more than entitled noble bastards such as the Lannister patriarch. It served him well, to see a penniless upstart move through the same society as the Old Lion did, and more: to earn the favor of the royals.

Dishonorable, perhaps, but it would be a lie to deny he enjoyed bedding Rhaegar and then throwing that fact on Cersei Lannister’s face. The spiteful woman fancied herself royal mistress material, and Jon rather liked knowing she would never be, but _he_ was.

Jon Connington was a businessman, and because of it, he had contacts and eyes wherever he needed them most. A lot of business was simply knowing what was going on, and deciding what to do accordingly, after all. Therefore, he knew the moment Lord Rickard arrived in King's Landing. His man, Yoren, a common scoundrel whose education and livelihood Jon funded precisely for occasions like this, warned him moments after the lord landed.

This put Jon in a quandary, on what to do with the information. He could warn Lyanna of her father's arrival -- and could well predict the fallout of that. The woman would likely panic and bolt, once again, leaving a brokenhearted prince behind. It was also likely she would take his namesake with her -- of course she would -- thus leaving Jon without an heir.

He really wished to keep the child as his heir, too. Perhaps it was useless sentimentality; but he was fond of the boy, and being inverted as he was, he would never sire a child of his own. He was not Rhaegar; he could not bring himself to lie with a woman for the sake of a kingdom, or a heritage. It was just as well that Little Jon was the product of genuine affection rather than some arranged scheme for political gain.

Jon Connington might be a bit of a hopeless romantic.

And he knew Rhaegar and his lady-love had been meeting in secret, with Little Jon in tow. The girl might pride herself for her ability to read a room and discern people’s motives, but she was as transparent as Myrish glass. Her guilty looks in his direction always bespoke of something — and what else but their mutual acquaintance would provoke that guilt?

Lyanna Stark was in many ways a woman, but in many other ways she was still a girl, full of dreams and desires. Ah, to have that innocence. Jon had lost his long ago, when the love of his life chose envy and heritage over what they had.

It hurt to remember. But remember he did, over and over, and made that pain into his shield. Jon Connington had not loved again, although he had his dalliances; he doubted he ever would.

No. Maybe it was best if he said and did nothing, and let the chips lie where they fell.

Never be it said that Jon did not enjoy a good drama.


	12. Minuet

In her mind’s eye, Lyanna saw a clear scenario: he would seduce her son with riches and luxuries only he had access to, he would buy her son’s affection with hopes of a future she had no means to give him, even if she accepted her place as a scion of House Stark. Jon had known little but privation in his brief life; it would not, she thought, be hard to sway a little boy into a better, grander life.

The reality of it was worse. It became clear to her, after the third or fourth visitation, that his siren song was not meant only for Jon, but for her as well.

He did bring her child gifts; they were not, however, the luxuries of a Targaryen. Rather, she suspected them to be trinkets he himself cherished as a child, or found fascinating in his own right, curiosities that may well be bought in the markets of Essos and Dorne. It made for a charming scene, whenever he would go on his knees and explain to her son how some toy or trinket worked, where it came from, what it meant.

Oftentimes he would play, his music taking a livelier, animated life so unlike the haunting and melancholy melodies he usually played. He began teaching her boy the fundamentals of music. Jon, much to his chagrin, had no head for music whatsoever, but he appreciated it nonetheless, and, she suspected, he appreciated having the man give him so much attention, too.

The man who, unbeknownst to him, was his father.

”Jon tried to teach him,” she’d said the first time, curled in one of the chairs as Rhaegar and Jon sat side by side at the piano, him showing the boy the keys and teaching him about the different notes. “He inherited my lack of skill, sadly.”

At that, Rhaegar simply looked at her, eyes fathomless and dark. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes; it made her shudder. So used she was to his regard, it felt odd to have the Prince’s face directed at her like this.

“I am not Jon Connington. The man has no patience, for all his talents. It does not surprise me he could not teach; things that took us, mere mortals, time and effort, come natural as breathing to him.”

He turned away from her then, to focus on their child and his education.

Rhaegar had changed. That was clear to her. Gone was the awkward, almost shy man who circled around her, who lost sight of propriety when she was near. No, this man knew his power and his place in the world, and he never forgot it. It made sense; the years had been no kinder to him than they were to her; and while Lyanna’s fate was of her own making, his was not. She could not possibly dream of how heavy it was on him, his duties. To have so much blood on your hands. To watch for enemies and plots everywhere.

This, more than anything else, even her child’s obvious delight, was what kept her coming back. Sure, she could have left; taken her babe and disappeared. Yet, it was a kindness, to give him these moments; this respite.

She kept telling herself that. It was easier than admitting that she wanted this, too.

It was a clear, sunny day, one that took them outside. Jon and Storm chased each other by the seaside, child and stallion taking great pleasure in splashing around and making a massive ruckus. Jon’s bright laughter was music to her ears, as beautiful as his father’s laments.

Ordinarily, she would’ve joined them. She did not; instead, she remained seated in the shade, Rhaegar by her side. This was also not unusual; they would often sit like this, when their child grew too wild to stay put.

They would talk; about politics, court gossip, the world. Oftentimes, they would simply stay silent, enjoying sunshine, watching their child.

"I was going to divorce Elia," he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. He didn't look at her, only stared forward into the horizon, past the child they made together.

As if he hadn't just upended her entire world.

_"Why?"_ was all she could ask. Elia was... she'd met her only once, but Lyanna could tell. She was determined; brave; stronger than most men, let alone most women. They had much in common, if only their will to defy what was expected of them, each in their own way. For all her flaws, it was never Lyanna's intention to cause a rift between them, usurp the Dornish woman's position, status, or heirs. Why would she?

"You ask," he sighed. "But it was not all because of you, no matter what you think. She has always been in love with Baelor Hightower and he, with her. I am sure they are together. It would benefit us both, to separate. I need a queen, and Elia, for all her qualities, is not willing."

"You would alienate Dorne?"

"For you? Yes," he said, and his frankness astounded her. Rocked her to her core.

He would. He would endanger his own country for -- what? A half wild girl from the North. Barely more than a child herself, or she was, back then. Sure, she would not be relegated to a mistress; and yet she would never wish to be a princess -- a queen; it was not in her, to be tied so. It was not in her heart, her spirit, to be -- in such a position. To be the cause of such strife. It was bad enough that she'd succumbed once, but to endanger everyone like this -- no; she could not possibly live with such a shame.

Yet.

Yet.

To live with him. Be wed to him. Share his hearth, his bed, his life -- it was the girl in her, the voice that rarely spoke, that said she _would_. Perhaps in another time, another world --

Ah, the roads untrodden. This was not that world; this was not either of their worlds. There were many roads untrodden, yet she could not devise one that did not end in tragedy.

"I do not deserve that," she said, measured. It was a thought she had before, in the chaos that was her mind; and it came back then, fierce. The thought that the woman he loved, professed to love, was a fantasy. Was something -- someone -- else altogether, far brighter and greater than who she truly was. He would bridle her; put a bit in her mouth and lead her where he desired -- and when he found her unruly and unserviceable, he would break her spirit. Oh, he would be kinder; but he would just the same, as Robert would have. And when she broke, and became tame, her allure would be gone -- _she_ would be gone; and he would discard her, as he so readily wished to discard Elia, and the gods knew how many more.

No.

Not for him; not for anyone.

"I am glad you did not," she said simply. He was silent then; and they stared over the sea, each lost to their own thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited rant:** sorry for the wait. I honestly thought multiple times about rewriting this whole thing better, or scrapping it altogether. I’ve been super busy and depressed and yeah... uninspired. Anyway, I’m not abandoning this one, so.
> 
> **Unsolicited historical fact:** King George IV, then Prince Regent, did wish to divorce his wife, Caroline. She fought against it, even returning to England to assert her rights as queen consort (even though they lived their entire married life separated, and she lived in continental Europe at the time). George IV nonetheless excluded her from the coronation ceremony, did not include her name in the Book of Common Prayer, and essentially pretended she didn't exist. She died soon after, and went to death saying she had been poisoned. There is no evidence either way.
> 
> This incarnation of Lyanna is older, more liberated and more mature than canon; she is not a fourteen year old enchanted with a prince (assuming that, in canon, she went willingly -- I'm pretending the tv show's version doesn't exist). Likewise, this version if Elia is not a shadow whose only purpose is to die tragically; she's in Dorne rocking the scientific world all by her lonesome. Who knows, when I finish this, I might write about her next. :)


End file.
